✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
[ 𝐒𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐋 1 ]
Because this is where love fades and hate resides and intensifies, broken hearts produce the most tragic stories.
Their treachery is told through their bleeding hearts: their unrequited love was never reciprocated. The...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"Elena, it's almost late. The Fashion Show will start in the next two or three hours, we should really go back to the mansion," I pleaded, my voice barely concealing my exhaustion. I had to admit, she was a true shopping force of nature, a high-fashion hurricane.
Four of Vidyut's impeccably dressed guards already trailed us, their arms loaded down with shopping bags bearing logos I could only dream of affording on my nonexistent income. But this incredible woman, this tornado of goodwill, insisted on finding me the "perfect runway-worthy accessories."
"Chill, babe," Elena said, waving a hand dismissively as she paused dramatically outside the entrance to Dior. "I am one of the head models for the show; they won't dare start without me. They know better."
She flashed me a dazzling, entirely confident grin and disappeared inside. I sighed, rubbing my temples. God, I never understood shopping like this. Back home, shopping was a necessity, not a sport. But as I stood there, leaning against the cold marble façade of the store, my internal accountant started tallying up the figures. The plane ticket, the luxurious suite, the seamless handling of my escape, the security details—all paid for by him, currently posing as my future husband.
Last time, he didn't let me pay for anything. He covered my sister's expenses too. Ada Sharma doesn't owe anyone anything, especially not a favor that requires her to be held captive in a gilded cage.
I needed to settle the score. I needed to give him something, a token, a payment, so this overwhelming debt of gratitude would diminish slightly. But what do you gift a man who doesn't own a home, but rather an architectural statement packed floor-to-ceiling with branded artifacts? His mansion was a museum of wealth, sometimes feeling less like a home and more like a permanent, very exclusive mall.
"Are you thinking of giving something to your fiancée, darling?"
I spun around. Elena was standing right behind me, a sly, knowing smirk plastered across her gorgeous face. She had the unnerving habit of appearing silently, like a stylish ninja.
I gave her my best deadpan look—a look that said 'I am tolerating this, but I am not amused'—and her smirk grew wider, her eyes sparkling with mischief. In such a short period, in just a few dizzying hours of chaotic shopping and shared laughter, we had clicked. She was unfiltered, loyal, and utterly hilarious. She was about to launch into another teasing comment when her phone rang, the urgent trill of a unique ringtone cutting her off. I didn't even understood when I got so comfortable with her, it feels I've known her from years now. It's cute.
